


Cheap

by heartswells



Series: Micro-Story Prompts [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Dysfunctional Relationships, Fighting, Low Self-Worth, M/M, Prompt: Cheap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 20:47:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13326189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartswells/pseuds/heartswells
Summary: Insecure: the word that finally broke him; that infuriated him; that scared him enough to make his blood turn hot with fury and his vision turn black with rage.





	Cheap

“Your love is fucking cheap, Max. Be angry at me. Give a fuck. Stop fucking saying it's okay when it isn't,” Joji attempted, feeling the syllables effuse out of his mouth like mucus, sludging to the ground to fester at their feet with the threat of disease. The words emerged with convoluted callousness, poisonously disparate from his intentions.

  
  


Your love is fucking cheap.  Max felt like vomiting glass, like tearing a million weeping eyes in his throat and splintering his gums with the shards. He was reeling—every ounce of aggression, every shadow of crudity, and every spark of unrestraint that defined him curdling to nothing. Cheap. Valueless. Damaged.

  
  


“What the fuck, Joji,” it died on his tongue without his intended vehemence, sputtering forth like a mouthful of dust. Every emotion inside him was paralyzed save for a threat of fear dangerously guised as anger.

  
  


“I was just as much a part of the fight,” Max stuttered, but he sounded unsure; insecure; volatile.

  
  


“No, you fucking weren't. You yelled some curses and some useless shit that you say everyday. But I said shit that I knew would hurt you, and you're trying to tell me you don't care after you fucking cried.” His voice wavered; he felt as if he were digging his fingers into Max’s wounds and ripping the stitches open, forcing the flesh to turn inside out, helplessly exposing it to infection. This wasn’t working. This wasn’t what he meant.

  
  


“I don't care. I fight a lot,” he muttered the words as if it excused everything he'd ever been told, as if they made cruelty justifiable.

  
  


“You break bottles and yell shit. You don't fight. You don't know how. You're not fucking secure enough to understand how to fight.” Part of Joji was panicking; he couldn’t seem to find the words tender enough to bandage this. Everything was emerging with obscenity, and what he intended to sound like a desperate plea was turned to an attack of angery anxiety.

  
  


“Shut the fuck up, Joji,” he spat.

  
  


Insecure: the word that finally broke him; that infuriated him; that scared him enough to make his blood turn hot with fury and his vision turn black with rage.

  
  


“You don't value yourself enough to accept that someone didn't treat you right. You sell yourself out. You just take it. You never fucking ask to be treated okay,” Joji spewed. Max felt wordless, infinite anger, the type of anger that asphyxiates and swells the heart.

  
  


“Shut up."

  
  


“That's not a fight, Max.” He sounded as if he was begging, as if he’d lost all hope and control.

  
  


“You're a fucking cunt,” he spat, and for once he thought he meant it. “Like what, do you want—for me to be  expensive?” he mocked.

  
  


“No—fuck it, Max—I just fucking want you to know you have value.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
